


Some Kind Of Temporary Sanity

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8248111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: This is just a dirty take on 2:19 Folsom Prison Blues which has been knocking around my brain for ages. I mean, c'mon! This is probably how it would have gone if SPN was on HBO ;)





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

“Don't worry, Sam,” Dean says brightly as a motley crew of greasy, tattooed cons makes lewd gestures and catcalls them through the mesh of the fence. “I won't trade you for smokes!”

Sam shoots Dean a look which can only be described as murderous, yanking sharply on the chain which shackles them together so that his older brother stumbles slightly. Dean chuckles. He knows bravado will be his best chance in this place. He's not naïve enough to hope he and Sam will go unnoticed, looking like they do, but he'll be goddamned if he's going to add coyness to the list of attributes liable to get him gang-banged in the shower block.

“You know, truth be told, sometimes I feel my beauty is a curse.”

He winks at Sam, whose expression softens, but Dean notices his big-little brother is trembling slightly.

 

 

Once inside the building, they are processed. It's humiliating and uncomfortable but Dean figures he's been through worse. He's taken his amulet off and left it with Bobby for safe keeping, and once inside his regulation orange overall he feels better. Less conspicuous. Less like himself.

He almost doesn't recognise Sam when they reach the holding area where they wait to be taken to their cells. He is slouching, trying to play down how strikingly tall he is, his bangs swept forward over those expressive sea green eyes. The legs of his boiler suit are a little too short. His demeanor is off – the way he carries himself. It's like he's apologising. Trying to take up as little space as possible. Dean's stomach clenches at the sight.

Sam finds his gaze and quirks his mouth just a little, his brow furrowed. Dean tries to give him a reassuring smirk, but it feels off. They are led to their block and Dean feels his hackles rise as the taunts start up from the cells. Disembodied voices reach him through the cacophony.

“Hey there, pretty. Gonna teach you what those lips were made for.”

“Wait 'til I get my hands on you, fish.”

“Yo! Stretch! That punk ass is mine.”

The last – clearly directed at Sam - makes Dean's fists ball on reflex and he turns to look at Sam who is a few men behind him, flushed, his eyes lowered.

They are shown to their cells and they stare at each other across the corridor as their respective doors swing shut.

 

 

Everything is too hard in the penitentiary. The walls, bars, floor, mattress. The light. The sounds – bright and metallic – that mean there's never a moment's silence. The people. Dean is used to harsh living but he has his freedom – nothing but miles of open road – and his discomfort is usually made bearable by the knowledge he's helping people. People who are inherently good. And Sam of course. The thought isn't fully formed in his own mind, but part of the reason he's finding this job so difficult is that he's being kept apart from his brother most of the time.

Sleep is elusive, and when it does come it's shallow and broken. Dean worries that if his brother does manage to drift off, the howls and hollers piercing the dark after lights out will bleed into Sam's subconscious and exacerbate his nightmares.

It's a couple of days before they get a decent amount of time to talk in the rec yard. They huddle together away from the card games and strutting gangs that congregate on the asphalt, keeping their voices low and their eyes averted from the watchful presence of the guards.

“This is by far the stupidest idea you've ever had, Dean and that's sayin' somethin'!”

“Relax, Sam. All we have to do is find this ghost, gank it, and then we're outta here. Few more days tops.”

“Yeah, well, sounds easy if you say it fast, but have you actually seen anything?”

“Not yet. But four dead in two months, Sam. Four people locked away – by themselves. I mean it has all the signs.”

“Yeah well maybe they got what was coming to 'em.”

Dean tugs on Sam's wrist but lets go quickly when it earns them an interested look from a brick shithouse of a man across the yard.

“Since when did you get to pick and choose who we help, Sam? C'mon man. That's not you. No one deserves that. This is what we do. We follow a job wherever it takes us.”

Sam sighs deep and showy.

“And you're sure this escape plan of Deacon's is gonna work? I mean we don't even know what this guy looks like, Dean!”

“He saved Dad's life, Sam. We owe him. He'll come through.”

“Yeah, well he'd better.”

Sam swipes a hand over his gritty eyes.

“What's got into you anyway? Missing your beauty sleep, Francis?”

“Shut up, Dean. Just shut up alright?”

Sam sounds soul tired and it's enough to get Dean worried.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Everything OK? I mean you haven't - ”

“I'm fine, Dean. Just...I just wanna get out of here."

Dean hesitates, weighing his desire to pursue this against Sam's black mood.Something's off. Something's not right with Sam and Dean begins to get a cold feeling which sinks right in down to his bones. He keeps his voice even.

"Well then. I was thinkin', this thing strikes when the guys are alone, right?"

"Yeah. Solitary confinement mostly."

"Right...so..."

Sam's eyes go wide.

"Oh no, Dean. What're you planning now? 'Cos whatever it is - "

"You wanna get out of here? This is the quickest way. We gotta know exactly what we're dealing with."

"You're suggesting one of us gets sent to solitary?"

"Bingo!" Dean cocks an eyebrow and Sam sighs again.

"You ever heard the term 'sitting duck', dumbass?"

"Relax, Sammy - "

"And stop fucking telling me to relax, Dean!" Sam hisses. "You might fit right in here but try relaxing when you have to share a cell with a two-hundred-eighty pound guy, who looks at you day and night like he's a starving man and you're prime rib-eye!"

Dean's first instinct is to laugh. But then he sees the fear in Sam's eyes and he feels sick.

"He touch you?"

It's barely a whisper. Sam waits just a heartbeat too long before answering.

"No. Not really. Not yet."

"Sam?"

Sam lowers his eyes.

"Says he's waiting for the right moment."

Dean's eyes narrow and scan the rec yard quickly.

"I'll fuckin' kill him," he says low and breathless.

"No, Dean! You'll make it worse!"

Dean spies his target leaning on the fence on the opposite side of the yard, watching him and Sammy from across the way. Dean's off before Sam registers his cellmate's presence and though he tries to hold him back when he catches up to his big brother, Dean is an immoveable force.

"Hey! Want a word with you, motherfucker!"

Dean reaches the guy and realises up close that most of his bulk is muscle and not fat as he'd assumed from over there. He supposes they have little else to do all day in this place but work out, and plenty of incentive to get built.

"How can help you, fairy boy?"

Fairy boy? OK – that stings. Dean tries to get up in his space, not having to fake the rage he feels and the way it makes the sinews in his neck stand out in stark relief. Acting crazy in this type of situation never hurts in Dean Winchester's experience.

"You can help me, fucker, by staying the hell away from my - "

"Dean!"

Sam's voice pulls him up short of making the slip. They don't want people here knowing they're related.

"Your what?" says the big man, visibly amused.

Dean thinks for a minute. He licks his lips, eliciting an appreciative squint from the oversized creep and says,

"My bitch."

Sam chokes on his own saliva behind him and the big man laughs.

"Oh really, fish? Your bitch is he? Well, see now, thing is, I saw him first."

"Yeah well," Dean snarls. "I want him. And he wants to ride with me. So I'll beat your fat ass into the ground if you touch one hair on his head."

Sam looks around to see the confrontation has attracted a few spectators, not least of all a couple of the guards who watch, their carefully bored faces belying their excitement at the threat of violence.

The big man laughs again. Gets impossibly closer to Dean and leans down into his face. His breath is stale smoke and sour milk.

"You can try, punk. And maybe when I've finished wiping the floor with you, I'll see if that big, pretty mouth of yours is as good at sucking me off as it is at getting you in trouble. Then you can watch while I fuck him into next week."

He jerks a thumb at Sam.

A few of the gathered onlookers snicker in an ugly way and Dean sees russet creep into the corners of his periphery. He hadn't realised that was a real thing – that you could be so angry as to literally see red. He hears Sam say,

“Please, Dean.”

And he's gone. He flails wildly at the man's face, using every dirty trick he knows, just trying to cause maximum damage. It's like fighting a stone wall and Dean kicks, gouges, scratches and bites until he feels himself being hauled back by the guards. The butt of a rifle connects with his stomach hard enough so he has to swallow down the bile which tries to spew out of him.

“Break it up you two! OK, congratulations! You've both earned a spell in the hole.”

He's manhandled away from the brute, but manages to see through eyes already swelling shut that the guy is bloodied and dazed looking. A couple of his fingers are hanging at off angles and he's hawking blood onto the ground. Satisfied, Dean looks for Sam who is watching him from behind a ring of jostling bodies with a horrified expression, and tries to smile with his split lips before he is half carried, half dragged to the infirmary.

 

 

Dean isn't sure what to feel as he listens helplessly while Sam's would be rapist has the life squeezed out of his heart by the vengeful spirit down the corridor. On the one hand he is on the job. His instinct is to find a way out, to help. To catch a glimpse of what they are up against. But on the other, he is half glad the dumb ape is getting his. The thought of that huge bastard holding down his little brother is enough to make him wish he was the one doing the killing.

The screams fade, replaced with footfall on the filthy concrete, the heavy creak of the door being opened and raised voices as the screws try to revive him. The commotion moves off down the hall and Dean is alone with his thoughts again. He looks at the small packet of salt he's kept from dinner. It won't hold anything off for long. It was stupid to let himself get flung in here unprepared. Maybe Sam was right. This whole thing was a bad idea. He hates that he can't know what Sam is doing right now. Who he's with. Whether he's in danger.

His musing is interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock. A guard he hasn't seen before motions with his head for Dean to get up and follow him.

“Where we going?” Dean asks.

“Back to your block,” the guard answers, not bothering to look at him.

“What happened to him?”

“Heart attack most likely.”

 

 

When they arrive, Dean starts towards his cell, but he's halted by a firm hand on his shoulder.

“There's been a change to your accommodation arrangements,” says the guard. “You're over here now.”

Dean struggles to suppress a smile as he's steered toward Sam's cell. The guard shoves him into the room and looks at him with something like disgust before bolting the door and leaving.

“Dean!”

Sam is on him in a flash, hugging him so tight that hot pain flares along his ribs where he got slammed in the skirmish.

“Easy tiger!” he laughs as Sam's lanky frame threatens to over-balance them. He pulls back.

“How'd you wrangle this?” Sam asks.

“I didn't do anything, Sammy. Someone must've pulled some strings. Maybe word got back to Deacon. Your ex-roomie though...”

“What happened?”

“I think he met our mark.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah.”

Sam nods solemnly.

“Did you see anything?”

“Not a damn thing. Just heard him screaming suddenly. Lasted maybe a minute then stopped. Guard seemed to think it looked like a heart attack.”

“So we're none the wiser.”

“Right.” Dean lets a smile ease across his face. “But it's good to see you, little bro.”

Sam grins as Dean briefly ruffles his hair.

 

 

Dean uses his all the skills he's honed hustling over the years to win smokes, trading them for snippets of info here and there. Sam bitches and whines for the most part, but he manages to get a few of the old timers to spill. Seems there's been a long history of sudden deaths in the correctional facility. Most of them sneak under the radar. No one wants the lost sleep or the mountain of paperwork. And after all – what's a few dead cons?

“You thinkin' what I'm thinking, Sammy?” Dean asks. They are lying in their bunks, bathed in the gloom which settles over the place after lights out. They've been here two weeks now and are getting used to the odd shouts and sobs they hear in the dark.

“The nurse?”

“Yeah. By all accounts she was more Aileen Wuornos than Florence Nightingale.”

“So she was offing inmates and making it look like accidents?”

“S'what it looks like. Except she finally messed with the wrong asshole.”

“I wish we had something more concrete to go on.”

“If wishes were horses, Sam. Well, I say we call Bobby pronto. See what he can dig up on the outside. This'll be over soon. You can betcha ass.”

“Yeah.”

Sam sounds pensive and Dean immediately regrets his choice of words. He shifts on the uncomfortable top cot. Swallows hard.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you said that bastard didn't...but you know...you know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Dean!”

“OK. But just...you're my kid brother man. If something happened and I wasn't around to stop it I -”

“Dean! It was nothing I couldn't handle. You couldn't 've done anything.”

Dean sits up and hangs his head over the bunk, trying to make out Sam's features in the gloom.

“You said he didn't touch you!”

“He didn't! Not really.”

“Sam!”

“OK, OK!”

Sam sits up and swings his legs out of bed, planting his feet on the floor. He lets out a shaky breath.

“I woke up the second night we were here and he...he had a hand on me.”

“What?”

Dean is up and off the bunk in a blink.

“Shhh! You'll have the guards in here,” Sam whispers. “It wasn't anything, Dean. Not really. He had his hand...down my shorts and I shoved him and he laughed and said I'd keep. And that was it.”

Dean is shaking hard now, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He's suddenly not at all sorry the bastard's dead. He slumps down next to Sam on the bottom bunk, trying to think of something – anything – to say to that.

“It's just this place, y'know?” Sam continues. “Give me a ghost or a wendigo – a friggin' demon – and I'm fine. But when he...I just froze. I mean...” he blows out a weird little laugh. “People, dude. I just don't know.”

Dean's ire is impotent, directionless. The guy's dead and Sam needs him so he brings one trembling hand up to rest on his brother's shoulder, his thumb brushing a slow pattern on Sam's neck, and the younger Winchester leans into the touch. Like when they were kids, Dean thinks.

“I'm sorry, Sammy,” he says quietly. “You know what? Screw the case. I'ma get us out of here.”

 

 

Dean calls Bobby the next morning and tells him they want out. With no way of knowing how long it will take Deacon to show, he takes to following Sam everywhere. He scrutinises everyone around them and starts to notice just how precarious their position is. Sam – so strong and smart on the outside – is completely out of his depth here. His eyes are too soft, his skin to smooth. He's a fearless hunter but completely disoriented when faced with human beings who would sell him out in a heart beat for a bump of coke. Dean has been naive. There may be honour among thieves but some of these men are killers, rapists, drug psychotic crazies and the strict – albeit dubious - moral code they've been brought up to adhere to is worthless here. They are fresh meat. Sport.

Dean knows they are in deep shit the minute he sees them sauntering into the shower block. He is stood with his body shielding Sam, almost unthinkingly. They've been called plenty of names since Dean declared Sam his bitch in the rec yard, but for the most part they are left alone. The fact that they are inseparable and sharing a cell now adds credence to their cover. It is assumed that Dean has somehow bribed a warden to let him bunk with his boy.

But today is different. There are whispers and sniggers from the group The air is swampy with steam from the showers and something else indefinable. Dean recognises it from hunting. Maybe it's a mixture of fear and exhilaration. But there's something else too.

A tall, wiry guy with dreads – the pack leader – steps towards them and Sam turns around, his eyes suddenly bright with comprehension and terror.

“And what have we here?” sneers the ringleader. “Well if it ain't the catch of the day.”

Laughter. Dean feels a miniscule muscle tic in his eyelid. He sets his jaw as the guys squares up to him, trying to forget they are all naked and how absurd it all seems.

“Word is you killed De Luca for this punk, fish.” He indicates Sam with a jerk of his chin. “Seems like a waste to me, though. I mean here you both are, all bare-ass and slippery wet, and no one's gettin' any. What's wrong with this picture?”

“Fuck off,” Dean spits simply, hoping he sounds unhinged and dangerous.

Dreads tuts. “Well now, that ain't nice. I'm jus' tryin' to be friendly. I mean if you don't want him no more, I'd be glad to take him off your hands.”

Dean smirks. “Oh I want him.” He reaches out and grabs Sam's ass, pulling him hard against his own wet body. He swears he can feel Sam's heart jack-hammering, pressed up to his arm. He tries to ignore the way Sam is breathing hot and hard right next to ear. The way he can feel his brother's flaccid cock brushing his hip.

“Why don't you show us how good he is?”

“Why don't you step back before I knock your teeth down your fuckin' throat.”

Dean is coiled and ready for the blows to start coming. He figures they're outnumbered but the two of them will be able to make enough noise and fend the group off until the hacks arrive.

But then Sam does something which throws Dean completely. He puts one large palm in the middle of Dean's chest and backs him up against the cold tiles. Then he sinks to his knees in front of him.

Dean just has time to say,

“Sammy?”

before his little brother starts to lick and nuzzle his inner thighs. He runs his soapy hands up Dean's legs and brings them to rest on his hips.

It's embarrassing how fast Dean gets hard for it.

He puts it down to the fact it's been over a fortnight since he got laid. Sharing a cell with Sam means even less privacy than they're usually afforded, so not even much opportunity for relief by his own hand, and he's only human after all.

Sam's breath stirs the hairs at the base of his cock. He notices the whoops and heckles die off and looks up to see the group disbanding, moving off to the other side of the block, a few pairs of eyes still greedily on them as they go. Dean tries to gather his wits and he's about to tap Sam on the head, tell him show time's over, when he feels his little brother engulf his swollen dick in the slick heat of his mouth.

“Sammy!”

It comes out as a moan. Not at all as he intended, and he nearly bites through his own lip when Sam answers him by moaning around his shaft, sending vibrations down his length and making him hunch. He wants to move. He wants to fuck his little brother's mouth.

He looks down, his jaw slack, and is shocked to see Sam's eyes on him. He's flushed pink from the heat of the water and his lids are heavy. He looks like a painting. One of those Renaissance paintings – all cow eyes and soft, dewy flesh. And where the hell did that come from?

Sam lets his eyes fall shut, like he's actually enjoying this. And that can't be right because this is a whole new world of wrong. It's so wrong Dean can't wrap his head around it. There are still gazes on them through the steam. Dean can hear grunts and the slap of wet flesh on flesh over the rush of water, of his blood in his own ears, can see blurred shapes moving through the mist and knows what that means. He hears Sam slurp and suck, winces as a sharp edge of tooth snags him.

He's not stopping this. Why isn't he pushing Sam away? He tells himself he's too stunned to move. His brother - his baby brother - is giving him head. They have an audience. It's clumsy and sloppy and maybe a little too rough, but Dean's pretty sure he's never been so close to losing it so fast in his life. And that makes him so twisted he can't even fathom it.

Sam pulls off just long enough to say,

“You can come in my mouth.”

Dean laughs then. Full belly laughs. This must all be some sick dream. He exhales and says,

“Jesus. Shut the fuck up, Sam.”

Then he comes anyway - comes so hard his legs buckle - shooting his load down Sam's throat. Like he has another choice.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a little rough and ready. No schmoop here - you have been warned ;)

When they get back to their cell, Dean runs to the metal john in the corner and throws up the contents of his stomach. Sam's hand lands on his back and he jumps as if seared.  
  
“Sorry,” his brother says low and gentle.   
  
Dean wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He keeps his head down over the bowl long after he's finished retching just so he won't have to look at Sam for a little while longer. Sam's rubbing soothing circles on his back and Dean is torn between wanting that contact and punching his brother's lights out. But it's not Sam he's mad at. Not really.  
  
“So...” says Sam.  
  
Dean reels past him and flumps down on the lower bunk.   
  
“I know that was weird,” Sam continues. “But I had to make it look real, y'know?”  
  
Dean would laugh if he didn't think he'd puke again.  
  
“We'll be gone soon. We'll be gone, Dean, and none of this will matter.”  
  
“Won't matter?”   
  
Incredulity gets the better of Dean.  
  
“Won't matter? Sam – you just...you...” He can't say it. “Call me old fashioned but in my book – it matters. It matters a lot.”  
  
Sam looks bereft. Then angry.  
  
“Well you could've fooled me. Since when'd your downstairs brain grow a conscience, huh?” He takes a deep breath and sighs it out. “I don't even wanna think about what they would've done, Dean. You know we had to...to make it convincing.”  
  
Dean can't process anything that's happening. He feels like he's under water. Sam's standing in the middle of the cell, trying to find Dean's eyes, which he's carefully veiling with an arm flung over his face. How is he standing? How is he sounding so calm, so normal when Dean knows he'd still be able to taste himself on his brother's tongue? And that's the kind of thought he needs to nip in the bud right the fuck now.  
  
“There's convincing and then there's that, Sam,” he hears himself say, although his voice seems far away to his own ears.   
  
“Dean!”   
  
Sam comes to crouch on the floor at Dean's side. He's too close. He smells familiar under the cheap soap.  
  
“I'm not sorry. I did what I had to do. I'd do anything for you. Anything to stop you getting hurt. You know that.”  
  
Dean feels something bloom in his chest at that. It's getting difficult to breathe.   
  
“Please don't hate me for it, Dean. I'm sorry but I didn't know what else to do.”  
  
Sam sounds so lost and so young, Dean thinks he might cry. Every fiber of his being wants to reach out to Sam. To stroke his hair and shush him, and tell him it's going to be OK. But instead he says.  
  
“Don't hate you, Sam. 'M goin' to sleep.”  
  
He turns and faces the wall. Sam stands and shuffles aimlessly for a few moments, then Dean hears him crawl into the top bunk. Dean's bed.   
  
  
He's not sure how long he lies in the dark, listening to his brother toss and turn above him. The rusted springs twang and moan and for some reason it seems to resonate in his head in a way the cries and clangs from other cells don't.  
  
Finally sleep takes him, but he doesn't get any peace. Instead his mind replays Sam on his knees over and over. His hooded eyes. The swath of colour across his cheeks. The sense memory – given free reign by his subconscious – of Sam's tongue, his lips, his teeth lightly scraping his engorged cock, is enough to have his abdominal muscles clenching, hips moving of their own volition. He wakes hard and nauseous.   
  
“Hey,” Sam whispers above him. “You OK?”  
  
“Yeah, Sammy,” he sighs. “Go back to sleep.”  
  
“Wasn't sleeping.”  
  
He doesn't know what to say to that so he keeps his silence.  
  
“Nightmare?” Sam asks quietly. “You were sorta groaning.”  
  
“Something like that,” Dean says quickly, his voice not as sure as he'd like.   
  
“You called out for me,” Sam says, and there's something in it which makes Dean's pulse skittish. His stupid, treacherous dick twitches interestedly and pushes down on it with his palm hard enough to hurt.   
  
“I'll call Bobby again tomorrow,” he says finally. “See if he's heard from Deacon.”  
  
  
They are in the lunch queue when the hack who fetched Dean from solitary takes a tumble next to them. He gets to his feet and shoves Dean.  
  
“You little prick!” he shouts. “You tripped me!”  
  
“No I didn't!” Dean protests and it earns him a fist clutching at the fabric on the front of his overall and a nightstick braced under his chin.   
  
“You calling me a liar, boy?”  
  
“Hey!” Sam interjects. “Let's just calm down, alright? I'm pretty sure he didn't trip you.”  
  
The guard turns his glower on the younger Winchester.  
  
“Well, you would say that huh?”  
  
By this time, two more C.Os have abandoned their posts and come over to see what the issue is.  
  
“Need any help here, Officer Hammett?”  
  
Hammett. A realisation dawns on Dean. He meets Hammett's eyes and thinks he sees the confirmation he is looking for, so he steps forward and shoves the guard hard in the chest. Sam tries to intervene, but is held back by one of the other hacks, and Hammett wrestles Dean into a headlock.   
  
“OK, says Hammett. Let's get these two cuffed. I'm gonna take 'em to the warden's office.”  
  
Sam still seems to be a little behind the program, but Dean keeps muttering curses under his breath to make it convincing.  
  
  
Hammett ushers them into a room – an empty office - and uncuffs them.  
  
“Hammet! Sonofabitch!” Dean grins.   
  
“It was Bobby's suggestion.” He extends his hand.  
  
“Deacon?” Sam asks.  
  
“Yup. Sorry to spring it on you like that, but I thought it best if I stayed undercover. Less chance of the plan derailing, y'know.”  
  
“And what is the plan?” Dean asks.   
  
Deacon walks over to the desk drawer and produces two folded C.O. uniforms.   
  
“Plan is you knock me out and steal my keys.”  
  
“I like it,” Dean says. Then clears his throat. “Look, man. I don't want you to think we're bailing. We've got a hunch and I think we can finish this on the outside.”  
  
“I know it. You're John Winchester's boys. That's all the assurance I need. Now get changed. We don't have much time.”  
  
  
Dean nearly honest-to-God sobs when he sees the Impala parked where he left it weeks previously. She's down an overgrown dirt track, well away from the main road - a sleepy stretch way out of town. His fist is starting to swell a little from where his knuckles met Deacon's jaw back at the jail.  
  
“You get the details from Bobby?” Sam asks after Dean hangs up his cell and chucks it onto the dash.  
  
“Yeah,” says Dean. “C'mon.”  
  
  
It's another four hours before they finally get back to the car, having salted and burned Nurse Glockner's remains, mostly in silence. They are dirty and tired, still in the clothes Deacon gave them. There's this thing lying thick between them, like muggy air before a storm, and Dean's physically sick with it. He's been mulling this over – he's done little else since it happened – and trying to figure what most disturbs him about the fact he got blown by his little brother.  
  
Which is a loaded question. First and foremost should be that Sam's his brother. _Is_ that Sam's his brother. But some part of Dean – some dark and gnarled part – keeps trying to rationalise it. He'd do anything for Sam. Anything. And Sam would do anything for him. It's not like they can afford to be squeamish, living like they do. Everything so physical and intense and constant. So perhaps, all things considered, the ends had justified the means.   
  
Except that's bullshit. And maybe the more pressing issue is that he'd enjoyed it. In the midst of all that fear and humiliation, he'd not only risen to the occasion. He'd come. Watching his brother fall to his knees and work him off had got him hotter than anything he could remember in a long and varied history of pleasure seeking. And how sick does that make him? How mired in depravity?  
  
“Dean?”  
  
Sam's voice snaps him out of his thoughts as he slides into the driver's seat.   
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“You OK?”  
  
“Yeah Sam. I'm good. We need to hit the road. Get some distance. We'll hole up at Bobby's for a couple of nights.”  
  
Sam nods and settles into the passenger side. He leans into the window and closes his eyes as Dean slips a cassette into the player and pulls out onto the main drag.   
  
They drive north for a couple of hours, Sam drifting in and out of a light sleep while Dean watches the miles disappear under the tyres and drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music. Occasionally Dean steals a sideways glance at his brother. He looks so peaceful. Like he hasn't a care in the world – which Dean knows is far from the case. But it's apparent the shower episode isn't affecting him as much as it is Dean. Maybe it's because Sam was telling the truth when he said he just did it to protect them...  
  
...Maybe Dean only imagined he'd closed his eyes and moaned encouragement while his head bobbed between his legs. Maybe he'd just been trying to get the job done faster. A necessary evil. Dean squirms in his seat, already half hard from the memory. He could do with a drink. As soon as they're far enough away from Little Rock he's going to hit up a bar and drink himself into merciful oblivion.   
  
“Dean?”  
  
Sam's voice is dozy and soft.   
  
“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.”  
  
Sam huffs a laugh through his nose and for one blissful moment it feels normal.   
  
“How long we been going?”  
  
“Couple of hours. Let's do two more and find a place for the night. I can't wait for a cold beer or six and food that doesn't come in compartmentalised tray. And I need to get out of these clothes. Man, I'd kill for a shower...”  
  
He trails off as he's bombarded with flashbacks. He feels his face get hot.   
  
“You want me to drive for a while?”  
  
If Sam picked up on his mortification, he's doing a good job of hiding it.  
  
“Hell no! Me and my baby been apart too long. We're making up for lost time.”  
  
Sam laughs again and Dean thinks for a second that maybe it will be OK after all. Maybe what goes down in Green River stays in Green River. Another unfortunate turn of phrase.   
  
But then Sam ruins it.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Uh-huh?”  
  
He swallows audibly. Waits for the longest time and then says,  
  
“I came.”  
  
Dean's world tilts and he grips the steering wheel tighter to avoid running off the road. He knows exactly what Sam means but shock forces the word out of him.   
  
“What?”  
  
It's practically a squeak.  
  
“In the showers. I just wanted you to know it wasn't just you that liked it.”  
  
“Shut up, Sam.”  
  
Dean's heart is racing and there's sweat breaking out on his palms, making the wheel slippery under his grasp.  
  
“It should've been weird. It was weird, but -”  
  
“I'm warning you, Sam. I do not want to talk about this. Not now, not ever.”  
  
But Sam's started now and the words keep flowing out of him in one long stream like he's a busted dam.  
  
“I've never been so ashamed, but I liked it, Dean. And maybe that's why all those men thought it was open season, y'know? Maybe they could see something in me. 'Cos I went down on my knees for my own brother and came all over myself without being touched, just knowing I was bringing you off. And you dreamed about it Dean. You called my name in your sleep - ”  
  
Dean pulls the car over so fast the tyres squeal on the road, and then he's up and out of the car. Sam thinks he's going to take off. Dean does too, truth be told, but then he's wrenching open the passenger door and hauling Sam out of the car.  
  
He kicks the door shut, shoves him back against it, brings his fist back and lets Sam have it square on the jaw. Sam goes limp, brings his hand up to the place where it will swell and spits a little blood from biting his own tongue. They are both panting hard.   
  
Then the light in Sam's eyes changes and he grabs Dean by the front of his filthy, stolen C.O's shirt and flips them, dragging and slamming him hard down onto the hood of the Impala. Dean groans, winded, and tries to regulate his breathing. Sam takes advantage of his stunned state and drops to his knees in the dirt, fumbling at Dean's fly with trembling hands.   
  
Dean barely has time to register what's happening before he feels his pants and underwear being tugged down and the hot mouth swallowing his rapidly inflating cock. He snarls a hand in Sam's hair, thinking he will pull him away, but that's not what happens. What happens is he moans,  
  
“Sammy!”  
  
in a choked off voice and uses that hand to keep his little brother pressed to him while his hips start to rock. Sam's answering groan spreads through him in a delicious tingle.   
  
“Jesus Christ, Sam. What are we doing?”  
  
There's no response but the obscenely wet sounds of suction – so loud in the dwindling light – and Dean lets his head thud back against the warm metal as he loses himself in the sensation of fucking his brother's mouth.  
  
Dean knows this will be over quickly and he pulls at Sam's hair where he feels the familiar tightening in his balls. Sam pulls off and Dean is surprised to feel long fingers clamping down around the base of dick.  
  
“Shit Sam!”  
  
“Don't come yet!” Sam pleads. “Don't want this to be over.”  
  
That sends something hard and dirty ricocheting around Dean's skull and before he's even allowed the idea to crystallize he says,  
  
“Stand up!”  
  
Sam stands, eyes flicking up to meet Dean's, so hungry looking that Dean licks his lips and shivers.   
  
“Take off your pants.”  
  
“Yes Sir,” Sam answers in the voice he used to reserve for their father, and Dean has to bite his cheek hard at the dizzying mix of conflicting emotions that pumps around him. He can't tell if he's hot or cold, his synapses ridden roughshod by perverse need.   
  
His gaze falls down to where Sam's opening the front of the ugly, synthetic uniform pants and pushing them down his thighs, eyes still on Dean's face. His swollen cock is tenting the cotton fabric of his briefs, and Dean acknowledges for the first time just how huge his brother is. They've seen each other naked plenty of times, but neither have allowed themselves to linger, to assess, to really drink in the details until now.  
  
Dean's not sure what's changed. They've assumed roles innumerable times. Laughed it off when people have taken them for a couple. Played along if it could be of benefit. But they'd never let themselves get carried away until Green River.  
  
Dean knows what a therapist would say. Co-dependency. No other outlets. Dead mother. Absent father. Abandonment issues. A veritable stew pot of ingredients that mixed any which way would lead them here. They would say Sam has some kind of fucked up hero worship complex. They would say Dean's promiscuity is a form of denial. They would say their relationship is unhealthy.  
  
And they would be right because Dean Winchester is about to fuck his brother.  
  
He runs a hand over the warm, throbbing bulge in Sam's underwear and hears his brother moan long and tortured. He snakes the hand inside, fingers brushing the hard, sweat-damp flesh, curling around it and bringing him out into the cool dusk.   
  
Sam bites his lip as Dean starts to jack him off. It's rough and tacky until Dean spits into his hand then it's slick and perfect and Sam starts to fuck his brother's fist in earnest.   
  
“Damn, Sammy. Hung like a horse,” Dean rasps as he works Sam's cock.   
  
He's teasing really, going too slow to offer release. He can smell the sweat from their running and digging starting to ripen strong on his brother's skin. Then Dean pushes Sam's pants and briefs down all the way, hooks them off over one foot and guides him firmly to the car, moving behind him.  
  
“Hands spread out on the hood and don't move them,” he says in a cracked voice.   
  
Sam complies and Dean kicks his legs apart into a wider stance, presses him down with a hand flat between his shoulder blades.   
  
“Let me,” he says quietly, and Sam nods, overheated skin of his cheek dragging along the paintwork.  
  
“Fuck,” Dean whispers, awed as he spits into his hand again and uses it on himself.   
  
Sam tenses when he lines the blunt head of his dick up with his hole, and Dean uses his other hand to knead his ass, willing him to relax. He spits again and smears his saliva around Sam's asshole, dipping his finger into the tight heat. He positions himself again and pushes forward hard, the tip breaching Sam.  
  
Sam cries out and slams a hand against the Impala's hood, nearly bucking him off.  
  
“Goddammit, Dean! Ah! Shit!”  
  
Dean grits his teeth and stills.   
  
“You're so tight, Sam. This ain't gonna work.”  
  
“Wait wait wait!” Sam hisses, and takes a huge breath. Lets it out slowly. “Just wait a sec.”  
  
Dean spits one more time and slicks up the shaft.   
  
“OK,” Sam says, his face screwed up. “Just slowly, alright?”  
  
“Not much choice,” Dean grunts. “You're like a fuckin' vice.”  
  
He presses in again, Sam whimpering and gasping beneath him. He's so constricted it's almost painful, but he keeps ploughing forward until he's completely buried in Sam's heat.   
  
“Holy fuck, Sam! So tight. You're so fuckin' tight.”  
  
Sam is breathing quickly, obviously in considerable pain. His bangs are stuck to his furrowed brow and his eyes are shut fast. Gradually he starts to relax and Dean feels him squeeze experimentally around him. Finally he says,  
  
“Yeah. Yeah. 'M ready. Fuck me open, Dean.”  
  
Dean moans at that and pulls out slowly until just the head of his cock is in Sam. He holds a cupped hand to Sam's mouth and says,  
  
“Spit!”  
  
Sam does and Dean slides his hand around the exposed shaft, wetting it before pushing back in with one glide.   
  
Sam thumps the hood again and lets out a groan. Dean pulls his hips back and pumps in again, faster this time.   
  
“Oh God, Sammy. You have no idea how amazing this feels.”  
  
Sam tries to smile around a moan but it's more of a grimace, and he pushes his ass back to meet the next thrust. This sends Dean deeper inside him and Sam's body jolts as his cock finds his sweet spot.   
  
“Fuck, Dean. Do it again.”  
  
Dean's hips snap forward and Sam's eyes roll back in his head.  
  
“Oh fuck yeah. Fuck me, Dean. Fuck me hard.”  
  
Dean smirks as his little brother, for all his book smarts and sensitivity, is reduced to a shaking, cursing wreck by his cock pounding his virgin ass. He slides his hands down Sam's arms to pin his hands to the car, draping his body over his back and slowing the pace, riding him with an undulating motion and licking the gritty sweat from the side of his throat. He tastes of smoke and earth and salt.   
  
“Oh God, oh God,” Sam chants over and over and Dean knows that his pleasure has surpassed the pain, turning this from a rough, inexperienced spit-fuck into something else entirely. He reaches around to where Sam's cock is rubbing up against the bodywork and wraps his hand around it. It's wet, impossibly hard, and Dean uses the roll of his hips to push Sam up and into his hand, giving him something to fuck into while he gets ploughed in long, deep strokes.   
  
Dean's pretty sure he's never going to be able to top this feeling. Sam's begging and shuddering underneath him now. Physically, this is the closest he's ever come to Nirvana, and knowing this person is bound to him for better or for worse by something more than vows and mutual agreement, something older and deeper, does things to him that he can't quite get his head around. In this moment, he realises that this has probably always been just under the surface. He doesn't remember why he ever fought it, though he'd rather die than have to articulate that.   
  
“Dean! Gonna come. You close?”  
  
“Yeah, Sammy,” he grates. “I'm there. I'm so fucking there.”  
  
And with that he lets go with a shout and shoots spurt after spurt deep inside his brother, making his thrusts erratic and sludgy.   
  
Sam holds his breath on the inhale as he feels himself being filled up and his orgasm is ripped from him. He lets it out on a loud groan which sounds suspiciously like his brother's name. Dean milks the seed from him as it pulses over his hand and onto the dusty black paintwork. Sam slumps forward and Dean carefully pulls out. He swivels and leans back on the car next to his brother.   
  
“My paintjob, man!” Dean groans with no real fire. Then he asks carefully, “Did I hurt you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam says truthfully. “But nothing I couldn't handle.”  
  
“Ends justified the means?”  
  
“Oh yeah,” Sam agrees, laughing quietly.  
  
He winces as he bends to retrieve his pants from round his ankles and straightens up.   
  
“Dean,” he starts, but his brother shushes him with a sticky finger on his lips.  
  
“Do me a favour, Sam? No talking. Not yet. Just let it be.”  
  
Sam looks up at the sky. A few stars are starting to peep through the darkening, endless blue. He nods, then very slowly brings up a hand to trace the fading bruises on Dean's jaw and leans in to press his lips to his brother's.


End file.
